Chapter 2
Juba looked back and saw that Gervas was gone. He held up his hand and Gauda and the others rode to him. The Romans had given up the chase.
“Where is Gervas?” he asked, reining up as the others gathered round. Juba’s horse fidgeted to a halt. Turning at the waist, Juba looked one way and then the other. “Have you seen him?”
“He was with you,” Gauda said. “I saw him following you.”
Juba spat out a curse. He gave heel to his horse and galloped back toward the Romans. Gauda and the rest of the troop followed.
Juba made a wide circle around the base of the hill. When he reached the top of the slope he saw the Romans. There must have been a hundred of them now. They had congregated in a tight bunch around a common point that Juba thought must have been Gervas. He could not tell what lay within the cluster of cavalrymen. He reined up at once, not daring to approach closer.
Gauda reined up beside him.
“Gauda, can you see Gervas with them?” Juba asked.
“Where did they all come from?” Gauda wondered. “I did not see them at all. Now look how many there are.”
Beyond the Roman horse was the field the Numidians had attacked. The foragers were filling their wagons not with wheat now but with the bodies of their fallen comrades. Still more cavalrymen were galloping toward the field from the distant camp below. The attack had raised a general alarm. The Numidians would not be able to linger long.
“But do you see Gervas?” Juba asked, his patience breaking.
“I see nothing but Romans,” Gauda said.
“I’m going closer.” Juba heeled his horse.
“Juba, come back!”
He heard Gauda swearing oaths at him as he sped away, but he had to find Gervas. He could not just leave him to the barbarian Romans. Who knew what they did to captives? He needed to know if Gervas had even survived.
He looked about for some concealed avenue through which he could approach the Roman cluster unseen, but there was none. He had no choice but to charge over open ground where they were sure to see him. He did not get far before the Romans turned their heads and began pointing at him. As they spurred their own horses forward to meet him, he had a sudden irrational impulse to charge them, javelin drawn. He was sure he could take down one or two of them, at least.
Then he saw him: Gervas.
As the Roman horse peeled away from their cluster, Juba glimpsed the form of his young trooper. He recognized Gervas’ horse, lying dead. Gervas himself was being carried by two Romans. One had him by the heels, the other under his arms. Juba could not tell if he were alive or dead.
The Roman cavalry troopers raced toward him, brandishing spears. Charging them would be suicide. At the last moment, Juba wheeled away. Turning, he immediately saw Gauda behind him. Juba had been unaware that Gauda was following him. He held a javelin aloft, ready to throw, ready to attack. When Juba wheeled, Gauda lowered his javelin and galloped after him. They easily outpaced the Romans.
“I saw him!” Gauda yelled over the sound of their horses’ thundering hooves. “They’re carrying him away!”
The Romans broke off their pursuit even more quickly than they had the first time, knowing now the futility of trying to keep up with the fleeter Numidians. Juba and Gauda continued to ride at top speed until they reached the rest of the troop who had remained hidden below the rise, waiting for them.
“I can’t think how to get him back!” Juba cried out in utter frustration. With all of his might, he flung his javelin straight down, burying the point deep in the bare earth. The shaft quivered at his side.
“There is nothing we can do,” Gauda said. “There are too many of them now.”
The troopers stared silently at Juba. A heavy pall had fallen over the group. Juba plucked his javelin from the ground and the troop began riding slowly back in the direction of Acragas.
They traveled most of the rest of the day, and arrived back at the city well before sundown. The people of Acragas were not used to seeing riders in the street. They were especially unused to seeing entire troops of cavalry, and Numidians were still a rare enough sight that many people stared at them as they rode by. Normally, Juba would have had the troop dismount and walk their horses, but he was in a hurry to find the chieftain.
While in the city, the Numidians used the office of a warehouse as their barracks. It was a cramped space for the ten of them, but they only used it to sleep at night. They spent their days scouting. Lately, their barracks had been a busy place. For the past few days, wagonloads of produce had been arriving constantly from all parts of the city’s territory and the warehouse manager often worked into the night, even while the Numidians were there. Juba sensed an anxiety among the people — and not just as they stared at him as he rode by. There were fifty thousand of them in the city now, and that included the ten-thousand-man mercenary army of the Carthaginian general, Hannibal Gisgo. The people knew the Romans were marching toward the city. A few had left to avoid being shut up inside during the coming siege, but many more had streamed in from the countryside, seeking the shelter of Acragas’ walls. Once Juba reported the proximity of the Romans, the gates would be closed for good and there would be no more leaving for anyone left inside.
The chieftain, Masinissa, lived in a house near the Numidian barracks. Juba was the leader of the ten-man troop, but Masinissa was the leader of all the Numidians in the city, over two hundred in all. After dropping their weapons off at their quarters, the troop rode to Masinissa’s house where Juba dismounted and walked inside. There he found the chieftain engaged in conversation with two Numidians Juba had never seen before. When they had finished their business, they turned and left. At a table nearby sat a man scratching away with a pen on a piece of parchment. When he saw Juba, he stopped writing and watched him closely.
“Juba! Enter, please,” Masinissa called. “You have returned from your scout.”
“Yes. We saw the Romans today,” Juba reported, watching the man at the table from the corner of his eye. He had had the impression that he was going to write down whatever Juba said, so he started out speaking slowly. When the man did not move, he resumed speaking at a normal pace.
“You saw Romans?” Masinissa asked. “How many?”
“Two armies of them,” Juba said.
Masinissa eyes widened in shock. Then he frowned deeply, calculating.
“Twenty thousand men in a Roman army,” he said contemplatively. He glanced nervously at the scribe, who then began scribbling. “Forty thousand men. Are you sure you saw two of them, and not just a single army split in two?”
“Two of them,” Juba said. “The first was setting up camp astride the Gela road, maybe a day’s march from the city. The other was farther away, to the northeast.”
“Forty thousand men.” Masinissa shook his head, making a low whistle. “We better report this to the general. Are you writing this down?” he asked the scribe.
The man nodded, still writing. “Forty thousand…” he said.
“Juba, describe to him exactly where they were. For the report.”
Juba spoke slowly and watched as Masinissa began looking for something. Juba didn’t know what. He seemed agitated beyond what was called for. He probably just was not used to such heavy news hanging around his neck, Juba thought. To him, it was a big responsibility.
Although in Acragas Masinissa commanded all of the Numidians, back home he was the chief of Juba’s own tribe and Juba knew him well. He did not have generals to report to there. He was not the same old Masinissa. Since coming to Acragas, he had adopted some local fashions and customs. He had taken to oiling his beard and his hair hung in slick little ringlets over his forehead. He had also begun sacrificing in the local manner. Although Juba thought that probably was not a bad idea, he could not see that it had done them much good. They had sacrificed before their scout, and although they had found the Romans, it had not done Gervas any good at all.
“We lost Gervas today,”
Juba said.
Masinissa stopped looking for whatever he had been looking for. The scribe stood and began rolling up his parchment.
“Gervas? The young one?”
“Yes. Son of Gaia.”
“What do you mean you ‘lost’ him?” Masinissa asked.
“I think he was probably killed. We stopped to attack some Roman foragers when we ourselves were attacked by a superior number of enemy horsemen. I thought he was right behind me. But when I turned to look, he was gone. We went back and saw him being carried away by Romans. His horse was dead.”
Masinissa thought for a moment. “Killed or captured, it is the same thing,” he said in answer to his own thoughts. “Oh, this is terrible news for Gaia. Of course, Gaia is gone now too.”
Masinissa had complained the loudest — not just at the doubling of the conscription by the Carthaginian recruiting agent, but also especially at the assigning of Gervas’ father, as well as others, to the fleet. It was unheard of and Masinissa had been outraged. He had lost every argument, and he ended by insisting that he accompany his people to Sicily. He demanded to be put in command of all Numidians, a proposition that was accepted if only to calm his anger. Masinissa did not like the idea of so many of his tribe away to war at one time, especially, in his view, the too-young — like Gervas — and the too-old — like Gaia — neither of whom would have had to serve at all in normal times.
Juba was in utter agreement, as was the rest of the tribe. There was a lot of bitterness. Few Numidians had ever even glimpsed the sea, much less served in the fleet. Juba, Gervas, and the rest of the troop had seen plenty of the sea since then, though. At Carthage, they had watched Gaia march onto the ship called the Ba’al Hammon. From their perspective high above, Gaia had been a tiny ant in a long line of ants marching onto the fleet. It was all Gervas could talk about at first. He spent hours devising complicated and impractical schemes for freeing his father from the ship. Juba had tried to soothe him.
“The war won’t last forever,” he had told him. “Besides, the Carthaginians are the best seamen in the world and have the strongest fleet. What harm could befall him?”
But, he had to admit, it was not the nature of Numidians to work in dark, enclosed spaces.
“Let’s go make our report to the general,” Masinissa said. “We can think about Gervas afterwards.”
The scribe handed the roll of parchment to the general. After reading it over quickly, Hannibal Gisgo said, “Do you have anything to add to this?”
Juba remained silent. Masinissa had warned him against speaking freely. If the scribe had written down what Juba had reported to Masinissa, then he felt he had nothing to add. All the generals were looking at him. There was Hannibal, the leader of all the Carthaginians in the city, and two officers Juba did not know — a young, square-jawed general and an old man who did not look like a general at all but who wore the accoutrements of one. There were others in the room as well — armed men and scribes and others.
“You are the leader of the scouting party?” Hannibal asked.
“Yes, sir,” Juba said.
“I’m interested in this second army you saw. Where was it? How far?”
“A day’s march — maybe a little more. We were not in a good position to see them. The first army occupied our attention. That, and the foraging party right in front of us.”
“We’re going to have to close the city at once,” Hannibal said to his generals.
“They have brought both consuls to the island,” the square-jawed general said.
“I will need to prepare a message to Carthage,” Hannibal said. He turned back to Juba. “One army along the Gela road, the other to the northeast. They will converge on the city tomorrow, I suppose.”
“This is what we think,” Masinissa said. “According to our report.”
“Yes, yes, I have your report. Anything else?”
“We attacked one of their foraging parties,” Juba said. “We hit them before they even knew we were there. The Romans seem indifferent to security for their foragers, if I may say so. We rode right up to them, unseen. Even then it wasn’t Roman cavalry that attacked us, but their Italian allies, I would say. At least that is what it looked like to me.”
Hannibal smiled. “How many of your people are in the city?” he asked.
“About two hundred,” Juba said. “Masinissa is in command.”
“That’s too bad. We need more men like you. It is a shame really. We’ll end up eating your horses, you know.”
Juba did not know what to make of this comment. He studied the general’s face for a sign of its meaning. Was it a joke? A criticism? But it was useless.
“We lost a man,” he said instead, undaunted.
Hannibal did not say anything.
“We killed four or five of the enemy in exchange,” Juba continued into Hannibal’s silence. “But we still don’t know if our man was killed or captured.”
“Men die in war,” Hannibal said.
“Yes, sir,” said Juba.
Hannibal stood up, slapping the scroll in the palm of his hand. “If there is nothing else, you men may leave. Your report has been made.”
Masinissa bowed. Juba saw him and then he bowed also. They were about to leave when Juba stopped.
“General, I vow to avenge my man’s death on all enemy cavalry — Roman, Italian or otherwise,” Juba said suddenly, turning back to face the generals. Hannibal looked up, interested in what Juba had to say. He had a curious look in his eye. He was a large man with dark features, but Juba had lost a little of his initial fear of him. Masinissa put his hand on Juba’s shoulder and tried to urge him along towards the door.
“Good man,” Hannibal said.
“I just want you to know, General, that we left some Romans on that field today. You should know that it was the Numidians of Masinissa in the employ of Carthage who have drawn first blood for Acragas.”
“It is noted,” Hannibal said. “You will have plenty more opportunities for Roman blood, rest assured.”
Outside, Masinissa scolded him.
“The words just spilled out of me,” Juba explained.
“It is a dangerous place, to be among generals,” Masinissa said. “Best to just state your business and be on your way.”
“There is more danger in that room than on the battlefield, I will agree with that,” Juba said. “Although Gervas might not say so,” he added.
Out on the street, Masinissa told Juba he was putting the troop on guard duty tomorrow, instead of sending them out on patrol.
“Easy, restful duty,” he said. “I can assign you to the acropolis watch, if you like.”
The acropolis formed the northwestern boundary of the city. The face of the hill was so sheer and high that no walls had been built to defend it. Lookouts still needed to be stationed there, but it was considered light duty.
“I think I’d rather be at the Gela gate,” Juba said. “If Gervas does come back … I mean, if he managed to escape somehow, well, he will arrive by that gate, being the closest to where he was captured. I would rather be there in case he shows up.”
The tribunes had gone and Megellus stood dictating the day’s correspondence when one of his guards entered the command tent.
“Centurion Livius bringing in a prisoner, Consul.” The guard stood just inside the tent flap, making his announcement.
A scribe sat at a small wooden table along the canvas wall. Several lamps burned inside the spacious praetorium tent. From outside, he had just heard the watch sounded. It was a pleasant twilit evening, quiet.
“Ah, yes, the prisoner,” Megellus cocked an eyebrow, and then waved a hand indicating that the prisoner should be let in. He turned his back to the door and poured himself a cup of wine, dismissing the scribe at the same time. With his free hand, he sorted through some documents before finding the parchment he was looking for on the table.
“Centurion Livius,” the guard announced.
“We caught him during
the action this afternoon—” the centurion began.
“Yes, I’ve read the dispatch. I have it right here.” Megellus turned and waved the parchment at the soldier and prisoner. He quickly perused the report.
“You were captured during an attack on a foraging party,” he said, reading. Then he raised his eyebrows. “Killed a Roman soldier, I see!”
Megellus put the parchment down and paced a few steps in front of his chair. The prisoner was on his knees at the side of the centurion, his hands bound behind his back. His head was down and Megellus could not tell if his eyes were open. He might have been praying. He had tawny skin, dark bushy hair and was dressed in a simple cloth tunic, cinched at the waist with a cord.
“What is he?” Megellus asked the centurion.
The centurion looked puzzled at first, and then replied, “Numidian. I think.”
“Does he speak any Latin?”
“No, sir. I can’t make out a word of his babbling.”
“He’s certainly not babbling now, Latin or otherwise,” Megellus said. He called for his translator, and once in place, said, “Ask him if he realizes that he killed a Roman.”
“I killed no one,” the Numidian said in his own tongue.
“Hmmm…We seem to have a controversy here then,” Megellus said, reflectively. “Do you know the punishment for your deeds?”
The Numidian did not answer. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground before him.
“What are you called, boy?”
“Gervas.”
“Gervas. An African. And lately from where, Gervas? Acragas?”
“Yes sir.”
“Acragas is probably a pretty crowded city these days, I should think. How many of you are there in that city?”
“More than you can count,” Gervas said.
“Oh, I can count plenty,” Megellus said. “How big is the army inside Acragas, Gervas?”
The War God's Men Page 4